Concrete Sherlock
by Meega-Nala-Kweesta
Summary: Based on the song "Concrete Angel" by Martina McBride. Sherlock Holmes is nine years old, and is being abused by his parents, he meets John Watson, a boy of the same age, at school and they soon become the best of friends. They are both too young to really understand what is happening, but the abuse escalates, so what happens to Sherlock? WARNING: Contains non-graphic child abuse.


**Author's Note: This is my first ever story, so please be gentle**

** WARNING: This story contains non-graphic child abuse **

**Disclamer: I own zip, absolutely nothing...the characters belong to the BBC *shakes fist* Moffat! The song is 'Concrete Angel' by Martina Mcbride.**

**I obviously changed some of the lyrics to fit, but I couldn't think of anything to replace 'linen and lace'...if you can, let me know!  
**

**Concrete Sherlock  
**

_He walks to school with the lunch he packed_  
_Nobody knows what he's holding back_

Sherlock's steps were heavy as he trudged down the street to his school. The lunch he had scrounged up for himself was shoved into an old bread bag. It was nothing more than a bruised apple, stale piece of bread and his old recycled water bottle filled with slightly brown tap water, but it was all he could get that his parents wouldn't have noticed missing.

A few of his classmates walked past him, glancing his way before hurrying further on while he walked on as reluctantly as usual. Nobody knew what was going on in his life, and he wasn't inclined to tell anyone.

He wished someone would notice, though.

_ Wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday_  
_He hides the bruises with linen and lace_

He really wished he had different clothes to wear, but his last set had gotten ripped by his father a few days ago and he hadn't been able to repair them, so that left him wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He didn't mind, though, not really. The long-sleeved shirt and jeans ensemble was slightly too big on his tall, thin frame, and was loose enough that it hid all the scars and bruises on his body. Sherlock rubbed his arm as he thought of those painful marks, but brushed aside his dark thoughts of his parents' 'punishments' with a soft sigh and quickened his pace into the school. He reached his first class just as the bell sounded to start the day.

_ The teacher wonders but she doesn't ask_  
_ It's hard to see the pain behind the mask_

Mrs. Hudson, his English teacher was looking at him strangely today. Sherlock hoped it wasn't because of the hand-shaped bruise along his jawline. He didn't want someone prying into his life, it would only make things worse. His mother and father had told him what they would do to him if he told anyone what they were doing.

After about five minutes of the teachers calculative glances his way, Sherlock lifted his head and pretended that he had just seen her look over, before sending a brief smile and getting back to his work in a way that he was sure looked the same as all the other students.

He put on his mask of 'normalcy', hiding his pain behind his false smile, and when he chanced a glance over at her a few minutes later, she looked like she changed her mind about asking any possibly awkward questions.

_Bearing the burden of a secret storm _  
_Sometimes he wishes he was never born_

When class ended, Sherlock quickly left the classroom. As he sat at this usual place under a tree in the playground he could feel the pain and misery whirling around under his skin, seeming to be slicing him up from the inside with a tornado of ice shards and smashed glass.

On the inside, he was drowning, on the out, he looked calm as he ate his lunch with no one beside him. Sometimes, when he is all alone like this, Sherlock wonders why he was even alive. He wonders why his parents would have had children if they obviously hated them. Sometimes, he wishes he was never even brought into the world.

_ Through the wind and the rain_  
_He stands hard as a stone _  
_In a world that he can't rise above_  
_ But his dreams give him wings_  
_And he flies to a place where he's loved _  
_Concrete angel_

When a soft thump sounded next to him, Sherlock jumped and fell to the side in fright. Looking at the source of the sound, he was surprised to find a boy, about the same age as himself with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, sitting on the ground next to the spot Sherlock had just occupied, looking at him strangely. Sherlock gulped, wondering if some kind of new torment was going to come from the seemingly gentle boy sitting there with a half curious, half concerned expression on his face.

"You right?" The boy asked, "I didn't mean to scare you, you just seemed lonely, so I thought you could use some company"

Sherlock looked at him closely to see if the boy was hiding some kind of hostile intent, but when all he could see was honesty, he relaxed and slowly returned to his previous spot, keeping an eye on his new companion the whole time.

The boy didn't seem offended by that, in fact, he seemed to have almost expected it. Maybe he thought Sherlock was like a frightened puppy that needed coaxing. He held his hand out and Sherlock cautiously shook it. The boy's grin almost blinded him, and Sherlock couldn't help but return a smile. An actual honest smile. It might not have been as wide, nor as bright as the other boy's, but it was real, and that made it all the more better.

"My name is John," The boy, John, said, "John Watson. And you are?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before replying, "Sherlock Holmes"

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock," John's grin had somehow, impossibly, gotten brighter, "I bet we will be the best of friends!"

Sherlock grinned back, and thought to himself 'maybe things won't be so bad now that I have a…friend….my friend, John Watson' the thought of a friend was a very foreign experience for Sherlock, but in his heart, he knew this would be a good thing for him. With John as a support, maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would be able to stand against the storms of his life. Maybe he could be free.

Over the next eight months, John and Sherlock became close friends, talking to each other almost every day, with Sherlock spending many nights at the Watson home, and John's parents soon came to love him as one of their own. Even John's sister, Harriet (but she preferred to be called Harry), had taken a liking to the boy, and never objected to looking out for him.

John knew about the bruises, cuts and scars on Sherlock's body, but he was too young to really know what it meant, and Sherlock had told him not to worry, so John didn't, not until Sherlock started getting more and more bruises, and seemed to jump at every touch or loud noise.

One day John went home and told his family that Sherlock had had a hand-print bruise around his throat, which he had been hiding under a blue scarf and his high-collared coat, both of which had been a present from John and his family when they saw the rags Sherlock had for that winter.

John didn't understand why his family paled and his mother and sister started crying, but he was worried when they called the police and told them to go to Sherlock's house. When he felt his heart suddenly fall to his stomach, John knew something bad was happening, and ran out the door to the car, Harry close behind him, screaming for his parents to come because they needed to get to his friend. His parents didn't argue, and soon John and the rest of the Watson's were on the way to the Holmes' house.

_Somebody cries in the middle of the night _  
_The neighbours hear, but they turn out the lights_

_ A fragile soul caught in the hands of fate_  
_ When morning comes it'll be too late_

On the days when Sherlock was in a lot of pain, he would sit in his room and cry as quietly as he could. He didn't want to get in trouble.

Mycroft Holmes, his older brother who lived in the room next to him, could always hear when his brother was crying, but he was too scared of their parents to try to leave his room and comfort his little brother, no matter how much he might have wanted to. And Mycroft really did want to. Sherlock meant the world to him, and he couldn't bear to see his little brother hurt. And that was why Mycroft never spoke out against their parent's treatment of them, because if he had, his parents knew how much he cared about Sherlock, and they would take out their anger on the innocent young nine-year-old boy. He knew Sherlock wasn't as strong as he was when it came to their treatment from their supposed family, he took it all personally and thought he deserved it whereas Mycroft knew his parents were just twisted people, and that one day he would be able to escape them.

Mycroft sat up fully in bed as he heard the door to Sherlock's room slam open, and the shouting voices of his Mother and Father as they yelled at the poor boy. Mycroft couldn't make out the words, and he didn't really want to. He switched of his lamp and lay down, pulling his thin pillow over his head to drown out the yells of pain coming from Sherlock as his parents beat him.

Mycroft wanted to go stop them, he really did, but he was scared, and his Mother and Father had never done any serious damage, so he kept the pillow over his head and resolved to help his brother with this wounds tomorrow.

_Through the wind and the rain_  
_ He stands hard as a stone _  
_In a world that she can't rise above _  
_But his dreams give him wings_  
_ And he flies to a place where he's loved _  
_Concrete angel_

John's family arrived just after the police did, so they were held back by a policeman by the name of Greg Lestrade as the rest of his team went in to investigate the cause of some shouts and crashes they had heard when they arrived.

John stood between his parents, with Harry next to them, while they waited with Lestrade for news from inside. About five minutes later, a policewoman by the name of Sally Donovan lead a scared looking boy from the building, and John perked up, looking to see if it was his friend, but he was too tall, and his hair to short, and soon John recognised him as Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, who had picked Sherlock up from his house a few times. John deflated a little, and anxiously waited for news.

Two minutes later and an alarmed looking policeman by the name of Philip Anderson ran out calling for the paramedics to run in now. They did just as two more policemen came out with the struggling forms of Sherlock's parents.

John and his family stood terrified at the scene before them. All four of them had tears streaming down their cheeks as they all realised that Sherlock was the only one left in the house that could have needed medical attention.

It seemed to be hours before they received news, but it was only about half of one, when Anderson and Donovan walked over and talked quietly with Lestrade. They looked grim, and their eyes seemed to burn with rage. After a few minutes, Lestrade seemed to slump a little as he looked back at the family, and before anyone could stop him, John walked up to the man and asked what was wrong with his friend. The Watson's gathered around, and Lestrade asked for parental consent before gently telling John that his best friend had been severely beaten by his parents, and that the paramedics hadn't been able to save him.

John stood there, unable to absorb the information that his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was dead.

It wasn't until the gurney with a small black body bag was rolled out of the house, and the night air was ripped apart by a wail of agony from Mycroft as he saw it, that John really got the fact that he was never going to see Sherlock again, and he collapsed to his knees on the ground, joined quickly by his family as they sobbed brokenly for the little boy they had all grown to love, watched over by the police and paramedics as they tried to calm the heartbroken older brother.

There wasn't a dry eye there.

_ A statue stands in a shaded place_  
_An angel boy with an upturned face_

_A name is written on a polished rock_  
_A broken heart that the world forgot_

Everyone went to the funeral. Sherlock's teachers were crying and blaming themselves. So were a few of the students that had liked him, but hadn't been friends.

The Watson's, with the new edition of Mycroft, whom they had adopted, knowing that Sherlock would have wanted it that way, stood next to the headstone, staring at the little statue of a boy angel looking up into the sky. Sherlock's name and his years of birth and death were engraved on a polished stone surface. It was too soon. He shouldn't have been gone so soon.

Mycroft blamed himself, and refused to speak anymore, preferring to just sit and stare into space, thinking about the life his brother might have had.

John didn't blame himself, he was too young to really understand what had really happened. All he knew was that Sherlock had been mistreated by his Mum and Dad, and that they had caused his death. He couldn't seem to be happy anymore. Everything reminded him of Sherlock, and he wished he could see him again.

The Watson's watched as Mycroft knelt down next to his little brother's grave and sobbed out an apology for not being there for him, and that, even though the world would forget him, he would forever be in Mycroft's, and the Watson's, hearts and minds.

_ Through the wind and the rain_  
_ He stands hard as a stone _  
_In a world that she can't rise above_  
_ But his dreams give him wings _  
_And he flies to a place where he's loved _  
_Concrete angel_

While they stood there, crying, Mycroft and John looked up at a soft call of their names by a voice they recognised all too well. A slightly glowing form of Sherlock stood in front of them, wearing the coat and scarf given to him by John, and clutching a stuffed bumblebee given to him by Mycroft. He looked better than he ever had in life, all his bruises were gone, and his hair fell in soft, loose, chocolate-coloured curls around a more filled-out face.

He looked beautiful.

He smiled at his two most important people.

"I love you both," he said, "and I want you to know that I'm happy, and that I have lots of friends now. See, they're over there," Sherlock pointed to their right, and the two boys that had been left alive looked over and saw a group of about twenty boys and girls playing under some trees, occasionally they would look over and wave to Sherlock, before returning to their games, "I'm happy now, Myc, John, and I want you to be happy, too," he looked at them very seriously, "No blaming yourselves, and no sadness, after all, "he grinned at them, "we'll see each other again."

Both Mycroft and John grinned at the Sherlock and whispered their goodbyes, and 'I love you, too's.

Sherlock gave them both a quick, barely felt hug, before running off, right through John's Mother, and joining his new friends for a race, his coat blowing in the wind, and his bumblebee clutched to his chest.

John and Mycroft watched as Sherlock and the other children faded from their view, then turned to explain what had just happened to the very confused Watson's. They may have not fully understood what had happened, but they now knew that Sherlock was finally happy, and free, and that was enough for them. And though life would be hard for them, they could steam through it, for Sherlock, but they somehow knew they would never feel complete.

At least, until they got to see their friend and brother again.

**A.N...**

**So, This is my first story published on the interweb...please tell me how it is, okay? Any reviews welcome, praise and criticism, as long as it is constructive :) I hope you liked it**

**'Till next we meet,**

**Nala**


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